He wasn't alone on the bridge. A slender, handsome man of indeterminate age sat in Anna's spot drinking coffee from a fat-bottomed plastic mug. Trey Claypool. Anna remembered a hurried introduction in the hall when she'd first come to Ellis. Claypool was the Assistant Superintendent, an often thankless job. Not unlike vice president but without the entertainment factor of going to galas. Assistant superintendent was a way station for the upwardly mobile or a parking place for burnouts and black sheep that the Park Service couldn't get rid of and never intended to grant the power of a superintendency. Anna had no idea whether Claypool was on the fast track or had been shunted off onto a siding. There was something off-putting about the man. Lack of facial expression: either he was brain-dead or so adept at hiding his emotions that not so much as a twinkle showed through. Eyes like a carp, Anna thought as she backed unseen down the stairs from the bridge.In the open area on the stem Billy Bonham, riding home after the night shift on Ellis, stood under the Stars and Stripes gazing back at Lady Liberty.
